


we'd become the flowers

by Lumalalu



Series: and time passes through us [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Riding, Sappy, Trans Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, i might make a part three. so there may be plot. maybe.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumalalu/pseuds/Lumalalu
Summary: They are standing on the edge of a precipice. Felix doesn't forget, but he does allow distraction. For a little while, at least.-whoa a part two?! dimitri and felix the morning of a march.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Series: and time passes through us [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107077
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	we'd become the flowers

**Author's Note:**

> this is a commission for KayNight (hi.) who is very cool. shaking ur hand.
> 
> WOW i wasnt expecting to write this dnhjsbd.. u probably dont need to read what hell first lmao. titles from Hozier's In A Week........ blows a raspberry.
> 
> dimitris no op, and i use words like clit and hole.

Felix wishes it felt like anything other than grief. He does not wish it often, scrabbles tighter into Dimitri’s bloody heart, curls into him and bites and takes and is kept in return. It seems right that it should hurt, that even if he has Dimitri it does not feel like it.  
  
His father had once told him that grief is love with nowhere to go. Felix thought that had been stupid, but apparently it was a widespread idea that infects the library’s self help section. It _is_ stupid, because Dimitri is right there to receive his love, but it still folds in on itself and hurts.  
  
Dimitri is clumsy where they meet. Felix wonders if anyone has ever touched him before, reached out to steady or hold him. Were they gentle? Cruel? Does Dimitri hesitate and flinch because it’s Felix, and they are like sea glass, broken and smoothed over and separated? Still, though, Dimitri digs his nails into Felix’s bloody heart, too, and they tear each other apart, direwolves that they are.  
  
This isn’t the truth at all. Felix cannot bear to be cruel. It is all he knows, and it seeps even into his kindness.  
  
The first snow of winter in a world without Dimitri was saltless, and the ice an inch thick on the ill-kept stone roads. The air was dry the further inland he went, freezing the small hairs over his face, the shorn ones at the back of his neck. Felix is a hunter, he fashioned himself an avalanche dog, searching out the warmth of - something. Anything at all.  
  
Felix is a hunter. He watched, and he waited.  
  
Dimitri should not have been so hard to track - everywhere he goes he is a gale, destroying the battlefield under windswept feet and tattered cloak like a fabled stormwraith. Had Felix seen him, he does not think he would have recognized him.  
  
Felix wakes rough and sudden, his knife held so hard it hurts his hand. It takes immense effort to uncurl his fingers, to remember where he is.  
  
They, he and Dimitri, are crowded into his narrow bed, and Dimitri’s back is broad and warm and torn to shreds and right there. It is too warm, but Felix turns into Dimitri’s skin, holds and holds, and strangles. He would recognize Dimitri. He would know Dimitri. He would, _he would_.  
  
“Felix?” Ah. Of course Dimitri is awake. Felix murmurs aimless sounds into his skin. There is a starburst on his stomach, under his ribs, where some unlucky arrow struck wretched and true. Dimitri touches his hand, gentle, ghost-like, a question.  
  
“Why are you awake.” Felix says, and he hopes he does not shake, or that if he is it is disguised by the rumble of sleep  
  
Dimitri hums, which is not an answer. Felix doesn’t press him.  
  
He _should_ be asleep. Tomorrow - today? - they march again. They leave in the morning, after the ice white sun wakes them warmly, and guides their path to victory. Like an epic. Or a play. Felix hopes it will not be a tragedy; all the old stories follow the same plot, and he’s never had much love for it. Felix remembers, as a child, he thought that meant he was a coward. His father had told him strong men strive for happy endings. All Felix feels is like a fool.  
  
After, Felix will take Dimitri to see something again. Something new, sprouting marigolds, with lilting motifs and successful lovers. Something kind. The tricky part will be getting Dimitri away from his desk; Felix gets a preemptive headache.  
  
… Daydreaming about it feels a bit silly, honestly. Felix is not used to thinking about such things. When his father told him, “They mounted his head on the palace gates,” and he could not think of anything but Dimitri, even in his dreams - and Felix had _never_ dreamed before, though now he is haunted by nightmares - Felix had stopped planning entirely. Felix presses his mouth to Dimitri’s neck. There are thin seams of scars even there. Wounds that could have taken Dimitri easily, and Felix never would have known that there was a chance he was still alive and struggling and -  
  
“Felix.” Dimitri says again, turning in Felix’s hold. “Are you…” the pause is long, here. Dimitri walks on melting ice. “Are you well?”  
  
He is. His heart is beating too fast but it is beating, and his ribs expand with his lungs though they are filled with cold water. Dimitri is covered in scabs and stitches that are half scars, there are healing bruises mottled light green and yellow on his skin, but he is warm and living and he will continue to be warm and living. Felix will make sure of it. He doesn’t answer, and hides himself against Dimitri’s heart. Dimitri does not press him.  
  
They don’t talk about it, either. They have given no name to the way they squeeze against each other like they could be whole again, and maybe they don’t need to. The years stretch long between, thick snow banks to stumble against, the distance massive and small, tangible and unfelt. Maybe it’s nothing at all, even as it is everything to Felix, some sign that they deserve soft things, that either of them could manage to be gentle enough not to break. Felix would be the bellows for Dimitri, to let him burn warm and low in the hearth.  
  
The Almyran astronomers say that stars eat themselves up to be so bright and seen from so far away. Old Faerghan poets say they are holes poked in Night’s blanket, which is why she is always cold. Felix does not want either, for Dimitri, who has been burning and frozen for a decade. Dimitri strokes a comforting hand down Felix’s spine, and it rolls traitorous into the touch.  
  
Felix wants so much. He does not mean to scratch, scoring marks over old scars, doesn’t mean to hold on quite so tight. Felix, as much as he hates it, holds Faerghus in his blood, and there is a sword to wield and a shield made for bashing and a knife hidden under his pillow, and he doesn’t know how to let them go and want other things. But Felix wants all the same. His hands are numb.  
  
Tomorrow they march on Enbarr. Maybe it is today. Felix doesn’t know, eyes closed and feeling the way blood pumps through Dimitri’s heart, under his lips and teeth. Dimitri strokes Felix’s hair, lets him bite. His skin is sticky, because Oghma’s summers are much warmer than Fhirdiad’s, and though Dimitri has not lived in Fhirdiad for some time now, he will always be more comfortable in the cold. Felix tastes salt.  
  
“Felix.” Dimitri says, again, maybe just to luxuriate in the sound of it, just to say Felix’s name. He cradles Felix’s head and forces him out of hiding, and Felix doesn’t know what Dimitri is looking to see, but he hides nothing regardless. It’s a terrifying thing. But if Dimitri deserves anything it is Felix’s trust, more even than his love. Perhaps... that is why it hurts. Dimitri has always had Felix’s love. That was not the thing that was missing.  
  
Whatever Dimitri sees, it makes him go soft, stress lines loosening in his young face, scars shifting on the plane of it. It makes Dimitri tip down, slow enough that Felix could refuse him even though he never would be able to, so that they can kiss. It’s a languid kiss. The kind that encourages Felix to ignore everything beyond the borders of Dimitri’s shape, the edge of the bed they lay tangled in.  
  
And it almost works.  
  
Felix has to coax Dimitri into most things. He has to pile food on Dimitri’s plate when he is not watching, has to drag him to the dining hall to start with. Felix is certainly not the only one who does this; Dedue and Mercedes have somehow gotten him into the habit of morning tea, brewed with changing herbs, and he frequently cares for the horses with Marianne. Felix half thinks he likes it, likes being taken care of, likes taking care of himself when he’s reminded, but Felix knows better. Everything is a struggle for his type - their type. Felix has to coax him here, too, but only a little, and Dimitri kisses him eagerly into the pillows.  
  
Felix _wants_ , with a depth that scares him. He is reminded of an ice fishing trip with Glenn, and he’d dropped his mitten into the endless hole, watched it freeze within seconds in the bitter air. They hadn’t caught anything for three days. Starving hadn’t hurt like this. Starvation, at least, can be satisfied.  
  
Dimitri bites his vulnerable throat, a matching ring to his own. There is a scar, a dagger wound perhaps, lancing up Dimitri’s right thigh, high into the soft skin of his hips. Felix rubs away at it, like he could smooth it over, like sea glass in ocean currents. Felix wonders if the spot is deadened or sensitive. Either way, it makes Dimitri squirm closer.  
  
The air between them is hot and suffocating and not enough. Felix would - he’d walk a path of coals to just be near Dimitri, this is nothing. Felix would collar and cage him, cling and keep. He’s never believed in letting something go if you love it, and Felix never makes the same mistake twice. Felix wants and wants and _wants_ , aches, hollow, will never be sated. Not even with the last body tossed in its grave, and the marigolds to grow there the next summer. Felix scarcely deserves it, anyways. But he wants, anyways, always.  
  
“I want -” he starts. He doesn’t finish because that’s scary, to admit to the chasm of him, to the one who left it there. He also doesn’t finish because Dimitri’s big hands are on his chest, restless, and Felix’s skin is starved still, brain stuttering to a stop without permission and “I _want_ -” Dimitri is cruel and unforgiving, sometimes. He burns. The icemelt is a dangerous time of year.  
  
Dimitri moves down Felix’s skin just as glacial, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. He holds Felix’s waist, tracing shapes there, almost too gently to feel. Looks up at him like he’s asking for permission, which Felix has never figured out how to give. He settles for petting Dimitri’s hair, which has gone soft with somewhat regular care, and he hopes that is answer enough.  
  
“What do you want?” Dimitri offers, fingers hooked in Felix’s smalls.  
  
_Everything_ , he wants everything. He wants a boring desk job, and Dimitri's hand. “Don’t play with me.” Felix says, which is as close as he’ll get to admitting it. Dimitri smiles, old and bitter and sad, the beginnings of morning lighting up his hair with a haze, an unfair crown or an undeserved halo. Felix ruins it with his hands.  
  
Dimitri drags down his underclothes, careful, which he doesn’t need to be because Felix couldn’t really care less. But Dimitri just _touches_ him, slow and reverent, fingers pushing into skin and then muscle and sinew, and Felix couldn’t deny him, could not rush him. The part of Felix that is now old and dead would be afraid of broken bones, but all he wants now is more, is everything, is bruises dark where Dimitri touches. Felix pulls, just to watch the way his broad shoulders twitch.  
  
Dimitri’s nails are a bit overgrown. They catch on the seams of Felix’s scars, they tear, leaving Felix soft and red. Dimitri’s hands are - large. Felix isn’t surprised by it, but he can feel it, where they suggest that he open his legs. Of course Felix obeys, of course he does, and Dimitri settles into the space like it’s his. Touches Felix like this, kisses him, _looks_ at him - slow and reverent with the teeth of shock. Like he can’t believe Felix is real. Like either of them are real. The expression hurts to receive. It is hard not to flip them and apologize in some way, to prove his worth.  
  
Easier, though, when Dimitri wraps a hand around his dick.  
  
Dimitri takes his time like they have much of it. He strokes Felix firm and if Felix didn’t know better he’d say Dimitri were teasing - his grip only barely too loose, his head dipped down and breath puffing warm over the sensitive skin. Felix could map out Dimitri’s calluses, the parts where burn and splinters overlap. Felix wouldn't consider himself an impatient man, but Dimitri brings out the worst in him, the parts that have teeth bent back like traps. That's fine. Dimitri likes getting his hair pulled, anyway. Felix brings him close.  
  
Dimitri makes a shuddery, barely-heard noise in the back of his throat in response, and lets go of Felix entirely, _leaving_ him - Felix is about to tell him off when Dimitri licks his palm and gets back to work. Harder, this time, with a mean little twist that has Felix’s hips and thighs tensing. But he stays still, and good. “Shit,” Felix hisses, and Dimitri smiles up at him sweet and dopey, his lips right against Felix’s tip, sticking his tongue out to tease the vein underneath. _Cruel_. Maybe Dimitri is teasing.  
  
He’s not particularly graceful. Dimitri’s a fucking mess, drooling down Felix’s shaft like a dog at the table. He’s focused, borderline worshipful, sucking patches of skin and seeking out the places that make Felix twitch and gasp. The attention is suffocating, smoke in his mouth, Felix has to fight the urge to hide away. If he did, he wouldn’t get to see the way Dimitri’s lips stretch around his cockhead and then slides down, down, further than Dimitri should probably go all at once -  
  
Dimitri gags, of course. Felix wants to tell Dimitri to take it easy, but Dimitri doesn’t do anything easy and it's hard to shape the words with his dick down Dimitri’s swallowing throat. Dimitri fights around the intrusion, tears beginning to gather in his lashes. They catch the light, pretty and golden, and when he looks at Felix there are stars cradled in the sockets of his skull. Felix can't help the hitch of his hips, is sorry that it makes Dimitri choke a little more.  
  
Dimitri is not sorry. Dimitri doubles down, hollows his cheeks and tightens his throat, and fights against Felix’s grip until his nose touches Felix’s hair, toe-curling. Dimitri’s eyes flutter with effort, but Dimitri holds his gaze steady, loving. It’s - it is agonizing. Felix can’t hide. Whispers, hoarse, “Good,” because the praise makes Dimitri whine low, and the noise shakes him apart.  
  
Dimitri _is_ good. He’s - he’s good because he wants to be, and Felix loves him, kills for him, will live for him. Is currently trying very hard not to fuck Dimitri’s mouth without any warning.  
  
Felix's stomach swoops and there’s a pressure in his spine. Felix pulls Dimitri off - hard, because Dimitri is a stubborn ass, and he makes a hurt noise that Felix reminds himself to ignore. Even this does not stop him, and Dimitri’s kissing back down his dick, _nuzzling_ , the fool, laves attention and tongue lower, lower still -  
  
"Come here." He doesn't beg. Dimitri is stubborn, but with some tugging he is there in a moment, and kisses Felix back just as eagerly. It tastes disgusting and bitter and Felix loves it fiercely, loves that Dimitri is stubborn and still touches Felix, reaches further back to tease at his hole and grins into Felix’s mouth when he shivers.  
  
They will have more mornings like this. Felix knows, he knows. Felix lets himself settle into the belief, rocks up against Dimitri’s hand and licks his tongue. Felix is not used to victory, the way that triumph feels. But he is sure it takes this shape.  
  
The knobs of Dimitri's spine are softened except where they are splintered and broken. He wonders if it hurts, still, and presses into the line of it. Felix breathes in the taste of him and it is choking, fractured and wanting. _There will be more_ , Felix hopes, against his better judgement, holds hope pink-washed with sunlight in his arms, and hope he asks to kiss him again, please?  
  
"Want you to," his voice stumbles and trips into Dimitri’s mouth, "ride me," Felix can feel the way the words tremble through his nerves.  
  
Sometimes, Felix forgets he is also coveted, that Dimitri would devour him in a heartbeat, gristle and bone shards all. Dimitri is shaky over Felix’s hips, his broad thighs warm through the thin skin.  
  
Dimitri hesitates for a moment, flirting with the loose ends of his sleep shirt. Felix doesn’t get how Dimitri can stand to wear the damn thing, thin as it is - it’s _Verdant Moon_ , and the nights are balmy and heat-soaked. Felix wouldn’t suffer it. Felix’s hands tighten to stubborn fists, he doesn’t want to - he is never sure where the balance between rushing and encouraging lays. Someday, it won’t be an issue, and Dimitri will - Saints, _fuck_ , maybe he’d strip slow for Felix, peeling the fabric away like he enjoys it, wants to be watched. And Felix will get to see the shift of his muscles, the way the light gilds each tiny hair, the vague shadows of his ribs where they flex and sigh.  
  
This is good, too. Dimitri almost hides in his shirt, sweet and glowing, and Felix’s heart gives a painful squeeze. “Can I,” he asks, pressing fingertips into the give of fat, delighting. Dimitri’s so warm, blisters raise on Felix’s hands.  
  
“Oh,” he says, as if it’s a surprise, “yes, go ahead.”  
  
Their scars snag when Felix runs them up Dimitri’s sides, taking the shirt with them. The sound of skin sliding against skin sticks in Felix’s ears, sends blood shivering down his back, and when Dimitri dips out of his clothes it ruffles his hair and makes some strands unruly and rebellious.  
  
Felix doesn’t get to see Dimitri like this very often. Their trysts are poorly-timed and placed even worse. For a moment, it is all Felix can do to swallow around the lump in his throat, and look.  
  
He’s fucking heartbreaking. People are going to want him, when they remember how to want things again - it’s a stupid thought but Felix thinks it’s true. Who wouldn’t want Dimitri? Felix can hardly breathe, is certain, rushes to tug down Dimitri’s clinging smalls. No one else would be able to handle him.  
  
Dimitri leans precariously on Felix’s shoulders, hides his face, squirms out of his smalls with only a little lost balance. They are pushed close together, and if Felix focuses he can feel Dimitri’s heart right up against his, keeping time. Felix holds him steady, hands on his waist, has him. Felix wonders if the sea glass wind chimes still hang in Castle Fhirdiad’s courtyards, in Dimitri’s childhood bedroom, the balcony, green like the wretched sky when it storms.  
  
Felix takes his time like they have much of it. Runs his hands down Dimitri’s thighs - large enough he could only barely begin to curl his hands around them - learning again where each scar lays. Another starburst, a slash, claws and teeth. And then up again the insides, not unscathed but smooth and - Dimitri shivers under Felix’s touch, on his knees, and Felix can feel all that corded power underneath layers of something that gives. Felix wishes he were closer, to taste and eat his greedy fill. He will have to make do with his hands.  
  
Like that’s a bad thing. Dimitri gives under Felix’s touch. He’s wet between his folds, spills into Felix’s palm. Dimitri’s grip on his cock tightens, and they both lose their breath. “Don’t take too long,” Dimitri murmurs, the fucking hypocrite, and spite makes Felix roll a rough thumb over his clit. “Please.” He shivers, greed in his voice.  
  
“I want to.” Felix grumbles. Dimitri laughs at him, kisses his head, pets his hair. Every touch should be repaid - Felix would spend hours making Dimitri feel good, any way he could. Felix hides his pink face against Dimitri’s pink skin. And he wants, he wants.  
  
He’s only half-learned at this. The tricks he’d use on himself don’t apply, and if Felix is honest Dimitri probably doesn’t need the stretching. But Felix wants to, and Dimitri’s not complaining yet. So Felix touches him like he doesn’t think he’ll get to again, afraid but reverent and kind, breathless at the way Dimitri just is, soaking and soft and warm, gut tight at how he opens so easily. Dimitri rocks down on his fingers and takes the tender skin under Felix’s jaw between his teeth. Felix hooks them in response.  
  
"Ah -" Dimitri cuts off a noise at the pressure, Felix can feel him tensing, scents blood in the air. Earlier, Sylvain had told Felix that he had been able to tell they’d reconciled by the look of their sparring. Felix isn’t sure what they looked like, from the outside, but he remembers Dimitri’s grin, and the sweat under his hair, and the way that, for just a moment, he was Dimitri and he was Felix’s, and no one else’s at all. Felix is not a graceful lover, but he aims to be generous, and Felix _knows_ Dimitri. Felix knows that Dimitri likes the stretch when he pulls his fingers apart, knows what sounds he’ll make when Felix strokes which spots, knows when to pull back and push deeper, and how to angle his wrist that he can touch Dimitri’s clit, too, and make his hips twitch.  
  
Dimitri treats sparring like it’s a game, sometimes. Teases Felix with goading and feints, as if Felix doesn’t know what a feint looks like, what Dimitri’s feints look like, as if he isn’t smiling like a bad cheat. Dimitri twists his hand around the head of Felix’s cock and smears pre back down, a little too fast but not _enough_ \- and Dimitri makes the same fucking smile.  
  
Felix kisses his open mouth, and knows that Dimitri will kiss back.  
  
It works, of course. Felix relents, lets it happen when Dimitri grabs his wrist and pulls him away, watching the way his face pinches at the emptiness. Felix lets it happen when Dimitri settles himself, settles Felix gently with scores of teeth, and sinks down slick and easy on his dick. Felix digs his nails in, breaking the skin, right down to his bones.  
  
It hurts, it always hurts, to be allowed this. There might be pain in Felix’s voice when he whines Dimitri’s name. Dimitri murmurs back, thin, more air than sound, he's so soft and warm and - Felix is going to die like this. Not on the field but in his shitty dorm bed, Dimitri heavy in his lap. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, runs them restless over Dimitri's shuddering ribs, his own wet streaking the skin. Dimitri - Dimitri tucks Felix's hair behind his ear and kisses his cheek, all kindness and sweet. The sky is blue, a robin’s egg shell, beyond him. It could not match his eye.  
  
“Dimitri,” Felix whispers, again, “Dima,” again, chords strained tight in his throat. Dimitri’s hands are warm and rough. Felix is going to burst out of his skin, clatter free into a danse macabre, if Dimitri does not keep him still. “Kiss me.”  
  
There’s - a split in Dimitri’s lip. Felix doesn’t know what from. It’s scabbed, a small spot made tough, but the rest of him is soft and spit-wet, and Felix can feel the torn edges where Dimitri bites and chews and picks, tasting mostly of Dimitri but a bit of iron. Even here, in this place. Felix finds Dimitri’s neck, his back, pulls. Settles with the heavy weight of him over Felix, warm. And very real.  
  
Felix begs, “Fuck me,” and can feel the skip in Dimitri’s heartbeat.  
  
For the first time so far, Felix is glad for Dimitri’s hesitance. Dimitri shifts, readjusts, finds the right angle and rocks his hips, testing. The pace he sets is fucking glacial. Felix rubs lines along his thighs, and feels the way they tremble. He can be patient. It’s very hard, though. It is hard, when Felix can see Dimitri’s want in the tightness under his eye and the set of his teeth, the turn of his brow and his full-body blush.  
  
He starts slow. It’s a gradual thing, Dimitri leans on Felix’s chest for leverage, which has the added effect of making it difficult to breathe. Felix didn’t think he was the type of person who enjoys being pinned, but here he is. The weight, the scratch of nails, the drag of Dimitri's swollen rim down him, up, it's fucking maddening. Felix scrabbles for a better grip, can't find the words to make his request - Dimitri seems to get it anyways.  
  
Oh… and the way he looks. Dimitri is wonderful. Felix can see him stained in glass, some untouched holy saint filtered through with midmorning light. Felix grabs Dimitri tighter, fucks up into him and pulls him down, feels mean with how it makes Dimitri's breath stutter out in soft moans and his brows knit. Not so untouched or holy. Dimitri tears through his chest, into Felix's bloody heart, right where he belongs.  
  
"Harder," Felix gasps, barely manages, wants and wants and _wants_. He feels like metal wire twisted around a child's gift of sea glass, feels like a match that won't light. Feels Dimitri all around him, when he clenches and cries and goes harder.  
  
_The bed is going to break_ , Felix thinks, somewhere far far in the back, right behind _Thank the fucking Saints_ , and _Dimitri Dimitri_ “ _Dima_ ,” and - hells, is he babbling? Really? Felix must make some kind of face, because Dimitri laughs at him, breathlessly, snarling. “Dimitri, I - please.” Dimitri leans down, heavier, to kiss him, affection is a gag to bite down on, and he can’t help moaning into Dimitri’s mouth, his hips losing their rhythm. The wood frame cracks against the wall.  
  
Dimitri pulls back, damn him, spit strung between them, leans backward against Felix’s thighs and - oh, _oh_ , he won’t last long. Not like this, not when he gets to watch Dimitri move, heavy and fast, a haze in his eye. Felix wants - he wants to touch Dimitri, anywhere, can barely make his hands cooperate where they’re useless on Dimitri’s hips. His waist, which is so ridiculously small, the miraculous bending of his bones and lungs, the soft heavy weight of his breasts - Dimitri squeaks when he’s pinched, even though there’s no way he was startled. He’s - Dimitri is glowing, yellow and pink roses, the kind that are too delicate to cultivate in Fhirdiad. Marigolds, thistle, things that poke through the thaw, the strong line of Dimitri’s throat and the bruises and bite marks growing there, the new scars settling into his skin, they’ve always been there.  
  
“Felix,” he says, and it sounds like everything Felix wants, like ice breaking, like the creak of a bowstring in Felix’s ear when he’s found his quarry, like handmade windchimes. Dimitri sounds like hearthfire, and Felix is so far from his cold home, but he feels it.  
  
“Close,” Felix warns, and Dimitri laughs and gasps and sighs, joy-filled and wonderful. Felix forgets they are to end a war. Felix forgets everything, and the sound fills him, lifts him, and for a moment, he is so happy it strikes him. Felix bleeds.  
  
Dimitri bows over him, buries him, growls and grinds down, lifts a hand to - Felix has to remind his useless body to move. Like hell is Felix gonna let _Dimitri_ do this - their hands bump and Felix grabs him, feels the delicate bones accommodate his grip. Felix almost expects him to tear away. Stupid of him, he thinks, of course Dimitri does not - Dimitri cages and clings and keeps. Dimitri lets Felix distract him, kisses Felix’s wrist. Hides in Felix’s palm and muffles his sounds. Stills as much as he can, so that Felix can touch him. But Felix thinks it is the, “I love you, Dimitri,” that makes him come.  
  
Felix does not remember what peace felt like. He was an anxious child. And then a shattered one. He is not sure what he will do at the end of it all; it almost feels like he will stop existing without the war around him, behind and in front, thick smoke that stings his eyes. Dimitri lets Felix clean him, towelling away sweat and come. Dimitri does not smile without his burdens, but when he looks at Felix like this, Felix could not care less. He is happy, isn’t he?  
  
Felix finds his peace, there, waiting for someone to come drag them back out, to crush flowers under their greaves. He lays his head over the rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest and does not dream.


End file.
